


Smaug The Magnificent; Two Hobbits In Hand

by 1MagnificentHero



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Badass, Brothers, Friendship, Gen, Heroes to Villains, Human Smaug, Intelligent Smaug, Noble Dragons, Villains to Heroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1MagnificentHero/pseuds/1MagnificentHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo the Terrible invades his mountain home, Smaug is determined to reclaim the land of his ancestors. </p><p>Armed only with a band of dwarves, he takes the advice of a wizard, and allows a pair of hobbits on his journey. But will Smeagol and his brother Deagol be of any use whatsoever on their quest? Smaug has his doubts. </p><p>Still, the first leg of their journey must begin. And so, with but a little trepidation, Smaug the Magnificent and his cohorts venture forth. Through the domain of mad wizards, untrustworthy elves, wicked goblins, and a trickster living underneath a mountain with a magic ring. And the familiar looking orc, with a grudge against dragons. </p><p>The odds are good that they won't survive. Bolg is taking bets, if you're interested. </p><p>But there's a reason they call him Smaug the Magnificent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before and After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see the goings on of 150 years previous, and 60 years post-hence.

In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit.

Not a dry, empty, sandy hole or a well that has long since dried up. Nor a nasty oozy wet hole, filled with disgusting slimy things. It was a Hobbit hole. And that means, comfort.

Although, there were occasionally some slimy things. But the master of this particular Hobbit hole kept his larder well stocked with only the finest, juiciest, tastiest slimy things a Hobbit could ask for.

This particular Hobbit hole, was named Bag-End. In it, lived the wealthiest and the most respectable Hobbits throughout the ages. All except for the newest dwellers of Bag-End. The folk of Hobbiton all thought the last of the Baggins was odd; he did, after all, go on an adventure with the Grey Wizard.

Oh, Smeagol Baggins was certainly a pillar of the community. But no matter how fine his jacket, or how polished his buttons, he had still disappeared without a trace – and reappeared a year later, as if from the dead, and with a wife! A wife who took to climbing trees, and stealing the eggs from birds, and appearing behind you without you noticing! Oh yes, Smeagol was certainly a curiosity.

But not today. Today, Smeagol simply strode through the hallway of his home.

He stopped at a chest, almost buried amidst the clutter of Bag-End, and opened it up. There, there in the chest sat his beloved sword in a warm red sheath. And beneath it, a book. He reached out to touch his sword – then at the last second restrained himself, and extracted the book from the chest with nimble fingers, and set off to his study.

There he sat, and lit a candle.

Taking out the book, he opened it and found a surprise. Tucked between the pages was a portrait, of him and his brother Deagol. Deagol looked just as Smeagol remembered; smaller, stockier, and with the most honest face any hobbit could hope to be born with. Smeagol had changed much since the picture; his curly chestnut hair was straighter, and peppered with grey, and tied into a distinguished pony’s tail. His wrinkles were more prominent, but otherwise he hadn’t aged much.

Smeagol smiled fondly, and set the portrait aside.

There was one change that even his worst critics could plainly see; he was happier.

Alone in his study, he began to write to his daughter.

 _“My most precious Lobelia.”_ He wrote.

 _“You asked me one once if I had told you everything there was to know about my adventures and while I can honestly say I have told you the truth… well, you know how I love my secrets.”_ He looked again at the portrait. _“I am old now, Lobelia. I’m not the same Hobbit I once was. And I think, by the time you read this, you shall be in need of advice, for an adventure of your own.”_

Smeagol dipped his quill in a pot of ink, and poises to write in the book. He hesitated, searching through the threads in his mind for the beginning of a story. Then, on finding one, he began to write.

_“I think it is time for you to know what really happened. It began long ago in a land far away to the east, the like of which you will not find in the world today.”_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was shining in the vale. Men and Elf and Dwarf alike crowded the marketplace for jewelry, arts, and the luxuries of a society greater than even Minas Tirith could boast. Light shone off the alabaster buildings and the marbles streets. Vines crept elegantly up the walls, as if the ground was too fertile to contain its beauty.

Gold was so abundant, that it was used for all coinage, and crowns changed hands freely, so even merchants not native to Dale would be able to boat immense wealth on their journeys home.

_“The story began in the city of Dale. Its markets known far and wide, full of the artful metal workings, and the largest fish east of the sea. It was peaceful, and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth: Erebor.”_

The Mountain loomed over the city. A sentinel. A guardian. A safe haven for their wealth (and everybody in the Dale knew, even if it was not acknowledged, that it was their wealth, not just the dwarves and the dragons). A pair of twin statues guarded the front door; two crouching dragons, jaws ready to bite. The battlements were lines with dwarves, proudly standing at arms as their ranks were inspected by a vast old lizard.

_“Stronghold of Glaurung, King Under The Mountain, mightiest of the Dragon Lords.”_

The City of Erebor, was filled with vast chambers large enough and then some for a dragon to live comfortably. Regal pillars lines the hallways, with massive, carved statues.

Glaurung sat in the middle of it on his throne of gold, covering his scales with gems and treasure.

_“Glaurung ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son Ancalagon, and grandson Smaug.”_

Ancalagon the Black was twice as tall as his already vast father Glaurung. The great dragon stood proud before the throne, no treasure adorning his scales; for he was a winged dragon, and he could not sit still on a horde long enough to accumulate them. He was widely renouned as the greatest warrior of the dragons.

Next to him, sat his son Smaug. Smaug was smaller than Glaurung, but even that is an impressive size. He was a dragon with bright red and gold scales, and wings tucked into the sides of his arm. He took after his mother, in that he did not seem a lizard like his father and grand-father, but more like a snake. His head constantly weaving on his long, flexible neck, a crafty glint in his eye.

_“The wealth of Erebor lay in the roots of the mountain, in precious gems gently plucked from rock, and in great rivers of gold, running through the mountain’s roots like blood running through a dragon’s heart. The skill of the dwarves was unequaled, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire.”_

In the workshops, the dwarves twisted gold and silver wires as easily as a seamstress pulling thread – but much more beautifully. Rings, beads, bracelets, necklaces, goblets, silverware, and all manner of crafts were practiced in the workshop. They weren’t sold to Dale to make a profit – no, why would they need a profit? They sold their works to be appreciated.

Other dwarves worked hard in the smithies and forges, crafted weapons for the dwarves. Just because they could afford to be stolen from once or twice, didn’t mean the Dragon Lords appreciated burglars. Sometimes ten dwarves at a time would work on a single weapon or piece of armor, for the higher ranking dwarves.

And long lines of dwarves hung in the mines, their lives a single rope away from a long drop and a sudden stop. They didn’t mind. They simply chiseled away at the walls, filling their buckets with gold, and whistling in the brilliant light the gold reflected from their hat candles.

_“Ever they delved deeper, down into the dark. And that is where they found it. The heart of the mountain. The Arkenstone.”_

One dwarf stopped whistling.

He’d chipped away at the stone, and he saw a glint of light hiding behind a shelf of iron ore. Chipping away at the ore… he lost his breath.

There, in the center of the rock, was a gem of perfect quality. Perfectly shaped, there was no craftsman in the world gifted enough to take a chisel to it. One could almost say, that it could not be improved at all. It’s fractals shone with every spectrum of color, every hue of light. It didn’t merely reflect the light of the candles – it was its own light.

This dwarf had heard that elves would sometimes bring a star to earth and give it as a gift. If ever there were an earthly star – this was it.

_“Glaurung named it the King’s Jewel. He took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even the great Elvenqueen, Tauriel.”_

Glaurung sat smugly on his horde, with his son and grandson beside him. A magnificent collar encircled his neck, and on it was encased the Arkenstone.

Queen Tauriel of Mirkwood was an uneasy ally, at best. And as she bowed before the Dragon Lords (not as low as Glaurung would have liked, but enough to show that he was indeed superior) his old eyes caught the hint of stress on her face. As if she was forcing herself to do this.

Glaurung decided he had reached the top. This was truly the pinnacle of glory – if there was a higher sphere to be reached he could not fathom it.

But he was always up for a challenge.

He would have more.

_“But slowly, the days turned sour, and a shadow was cast over the days of peace and plenty. Glaurung’s love of gold grew too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him; a lust for gold. A lust that should always be kept in check, especially if you’re a dragon.”_

Piles of golden coins. Countless crowns, overflowing. It wasn’t just the throne anymore; there were several piles, glittering with crystal brilliance, hemmed by ornate golden shield which no dwarf had ever wielded.

Smaug saw it all, and he was… unnerved.

_"Because where sickness thrives, terrible things will follow."_

It was the seven hundredth and seventy-first anniversary of King Glaurung’s rule over Erebor.

Children in the streets laughed and played, and threw up dragon kites into the air. As the kites flew, a great gust of wind blew into the vale.

_“The first they heard was a noise like a thunder storm coming down from the north. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in a hot, dry wind.”_

Smaug peered out from the battlements. An old dwarf with a greying beard, stood at eye level with him, looking out at the forest with him, watching for any signs of danger. Smaug sniffed at the air… and he snarled with shock and disbelief.

“Bolg, sound the alarm.” Smaug said. He flinched, as a flag pole snapped off in the wind, almost hitting him in the eye. “Call out the guard. Do it now!”

“What is it?” Bolg asked, apprehension increasing.

“Mountain Giant.” Smaug grunted. He whipped his snake-like neck into the hall and called into Erebor with a roar:

“GIAAAAAAANT!!!”

Bolg stared with shock as a few uprooted trees dance in the wind. Then Smaug’s tail caught his leg, and whipped him out of the way just in time; a boulder the size of the pile of gold King Glaurung sat on crashed into the front gate, thrown from far away.

_“It was a Mountain Giant from the north. And he was not alone; a force of thirteen monstrous trolls accompanied him, more powerful and dreadful than is seen in the world today.”_

_“Bilbo had come.”_

Screams split the air in dale.

Buildings were demolished without a thought. A troll grabbed a tree and swung it around, sweeping clean the second story windows as he strolled down the street. One troll carried a slingshot, and he picked up children, firing them like darts of death.

A fat troll with a mace ignored the people he stepped on, simply racing down the hill to the palace and crashing into the King of Dale’s home. The palace crumbled in on itself, and the troll emerged unharmed, laughing, dusting rubble and corpses off his jacket.

A family huddled in terror in their kitchen. They could wait. They could wait until the trolls were on the other side of town, terrorizing the people there. Then they could run, while the streets were clear. The father hugged his family together, the six of them watching as a shadow moved down the street accompanied by bellowing, raucous laughter.

The laughter and the heavy footsteps faded, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Then a massive hand forced its way through the wall. The children screamed, as their mother was dragged out of the house by her feet, and dangled over an eager mouth.

_“Such wanton death was dealt that day, for this city of men was nothing to Bilbo; his eye was set on another prize. For Giants crave mountains, to make their home and hearth.”_

Smaug followed behind the battalions of dwarves as Ancalagon made his way to the front gates to defend Erebor.

“Stand firm!” He ordered. For he was the greatest of the fire drakes in this age, the tallest dragon in all time. And he would not run.

A massive stone hand, as big as a troll, gripped one side of the battlements.

Another hand held fast to the other side.

Smaug watched with awe. The Giant was as tall as his father at least. All he could see was a massive shadow outside of the gates, as if another mountain had planted itself outside their front door.

And then Bilbo kicked the door in.

Some dwarves were knocked off their feet by just the force of wind from the blow. Others were pelted by rocks, and pieces of the gate that flew by.

Ancalagon took the brunt of it, refusing to be knocked back as he was pelted with debris. And then he let forth a belch of flame, as the Giant reached in. The hand was of solid stone, and still it retreated from the ferocity of Ancalagon’s flames. Smaug’s father surged forward head-butting the giant, before digging his teeth into Bilbo’s shoulder. The dwarves cheered. They couldn’t see much through the smoke and the fire. But they could see enough to know that their prince was winning against the dark figure of the giant.

Then the chains came.

They were hurled down from above the gate, and down dropped a troll almost as big as Smaug was. The troll was a ferocious Olog-Hai, wearing black armor, and it tightened the chains around Ancalagon’s neck. He used more chains, tying down Ancalagon’s wings, and ignoring him as the dragon beat uselessly at his armor with his tail.

Smaug’s eyes narrowed. They weren’t just powerful; they were organized.

“Fall back!” Smaug ordered. He rushed forward. “Archers at the ready, but archers only! All infantry fall back!”

“Fili! Kili!”

Smaug froze in horror.

There were very few things that could kill a dragon. One of them was a Black Arrow, which could only be fired from a Windlass. A large crossbow which had to be fastened to the ground to protect the wielder from the recoil. Unless the Windlass was wielded by a troll.

A pair of trolls came up on either side of Ancalagon. They each had Windlasses. Ancalagon was so vast they didn't even need to aim; they just fired.

“Father!” Smaug roared.

Ancalagon still refused to let go. His jaw digged even deeper into Bilbo’s rocky hide. He whipped his tail around, the tip sharpened enough by the finest smithies to cut through even the armor of the Valar. But that was the only attention he paid as the pair of them, Fili and Kili, dodged around the flailing appendage. They refilled their Windlass’ with black arrows and fired again.

“Son!” Smaug turned. Glaurung was there, staring. A host of dwarf evacuees were on his back.

Ancalagon roared with pain as more black arrows were fired. He gasped for breath, as the armored troll tightened his pull on the chains around his neck. As he gasped for air his jaws slackened their bite, and Bilbo knocked him back.

“Father!” Smaug latched onto his father and tried to drag him away. But his father was too vast, to massive to be carried easily even by another dragon.

“Smaug.” Ancalagon’s eyes met his sons. “Play to your strengths, my son. You are not yet ready for this fight… but you are stronger than you know. I will hew a path for you, and when you are strong enough you must find it.”

“Father…” Dragon tears streamed down Smaug’s cheeks.

“Back!” Smaug’s head snapped back in the instant before it was cut off. He hissed, but the armored troll only levelled his sword at him. “This mountain now belongs to the company of Thorin!” And then Thorin lunged, sword swinging in a dizzy dance.

Smaug snapped at him, head shooting forward like a snake. Thorin caught him, and bashed his head against a column. Thorin ignored the dwarven archers firing at him; his sword snaked forward, and Smaug only barely managed to pull back, and unleash a stream of fire and smoke. Thorin’s blade missed its mark, and when he could see again, he could not see Smaug. Smaug came from behind; Thorin’s blade was knocked from his hand, and he was pinned to the ground.

“You have lost.” Thorin whispered. “Everything.”

Smaug’s eyes narrowed, and then he heard the roar of pain.

He turned, and saw his father’s tail had embedded itself in the giant Bilbo’s heel.

He saw a massive stone foot rise to step on his father’s head.

“NOOOOOO!!”

There was a crunch.

The life of Ancalagon the Black was ended.

Smaug roared in pain. Not pain from his father's death; busy as he was, he did not yet have time to grieve. Thorin’s blade slipped through his scales. It wasn’t a deep wound; just enough to scrape off his scales, making an open wound in his gem encrusted hide. And then Glaurung came. His jaws snapped shut on Thorin, and he tossed the massive troll to the side.

“Come Smaug, quickly!”

“No!” Smaug cried as Glaurung dagged him off.

The dark shape of the Giant pursued them, and the dwarves fled around them.

One of the trolls shot at Glaurung. The King’s life was saved by his collar; it took the blow for him. The Arkenstone fell off, and Glaurung cast a despairing look after it. But Smaug had recovered his wits. He pulled his grandfather along, and the two dragons fled the mountain.

Some dwarves remained valiantly behind, firing arrow after lethally crafted arrow at the massive giant and his trolls.

They never had a chance.

_“Erebor was lost, for once a giant has chosen a mountain to live in, he will stay in his hole for as long as he lives.”_

The dwarves spilled out of Erebor. As Glaurung led them away, Smaug looked up, and saw Queen Tauriel on the ridge.

Smaug’s hopes soared. With the elve’s help, they could take back the mountain! They could fight against the trolls! “Help us!” He called. “Help us!”

The elf queen looked on in disdain. Smaug’s hopes faded.

Queen Tauriel sent a signal to her troops, and they began to march away.

Enraged, Smaug launched himself into the sky. With a roar, he landed in front of the Queen. “Why –”

He was cut off, as over a dozen archers pelted him with arrows. One of them hit the bare spot on his chest, freshly created by that thrice-cursed Olog-Hai Thorin. Smaug roared in pain, and fell of the cliff with a bellow.

_“Tauriel would not risk the lives of her kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the elves that day, or any day since.”_

Months passed.

Smaug gingerly touched the spot on his chest. It had never fully healed since that day. Glaurung said he was lucky to be alive. Smaug was angry. He was angry at everything.

He roused himself slowly from his bed. His bed of moss, and leaves, and dirt. His bed of charred earth, that coated his belly in slime when he slept instead of jewels. He was once called Smaug the Magnificent. He wasn’t magnificent any longer. Standing tall in the grasslands, he sniffed the air, and got ready to lead the dwarves further along the road to progress.

_“Robbed of their homeland, the dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness, a once mighty people brought low. The young Dragon Prince guided them, and guarded them when he could. And he never forgave. And he never forgot.”_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_“And that, my dear Lobelia, is where I come in. For quite by chance, and the will of a Wizard, fate decided I would become a part of this tale. It began, well, it began as you might expect.”_

Smeagol dipped his quill into his ink well again. He was quite relaxed now, and in his element.

_“In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit.”_

The summer sun shone into Bag-End. Through the windows, one could see eager Hobbits going about their business. It was Smeagol’s birthday, and he always gave the best presents. The field outside of Bag-End was being set up for a massive party, food was being brought from all corners of Hobbiton. There was even a rumor that a certain wizard would be in attendance. Not even the prospect of their hosts’… strangeness, was enough to deter them from the celebration.

Lobelia strode through Bag-End with a simple joy. Her unusually black hair was tied in splendid curls. Lobelia grabbed an apple to munch on, and went out to get the mail. Bag-End had been getting more mail lately, and she didn’t know yet whether that was a good thing or not. Her father had always been wary of ill publicity. 

When she went back inside, looking through the mail. Her papa was still at his desk, chuckling as he wrote his story. He stopped when he heard her coming – somehow he could always hear her. Despite the Sackvile-Baggins family being quieter then most.

“Thank you, precious.” He muttered, when she dropped the mail beside him.

She smiled lightly, and picked up the portrait. “What’s this?”

“That, is private.” Smeagol said, plucking the portrait out of her hand.

“Is that Uncle Deagol?” She asked.

Smeagol stilled. Then he folded the portrait into his drawer.

“Sorry.” Lobelia muttered, blushing for a moment. But her curiosity wasn’t satiated for long. She gestured at his book. “What’s this?”

“Keep your sticky paws off.” Smeagol said, shutting the book. “It’s not ready yet.”

Smeagol’s throat caught, and he coughed. “Gollum! Goullm!” Lobelia patted him softly on the back, and he waved her off.

He picked up the pile of letters. “What on earth are these?”

“Replies to the party invitations.” Lobelia explained softly.

Smeagol paled. “Oh! Good gracious! Is it today?”

Lobelia nodded. “They all said they’re coming.”

“Oh, how dreadful.” Smeagol, wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “All of those Hobbits out there, just waiting to wish me a happy birthday. At least tell me the Tooks didn’t say yes.”

Lobelia laughed, and shook her head. “No; they’re demanding you ask them in person.”

“Are they, indeed?” Smeagol snorted, glad to have some control over the situation. “Over my dead body. Gollum! Gollum!”

“I can’t argue with that.” Lobelia said, as Smeagol got out of his writing chair and made his way down the hall. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Taking precautions.” Smeagol muttered, taking all of his valuables out of his chests and putting them into pots. “Yes, he’ll never think to look there. You know, I caught him making off with the silverware once.”

“Who?” Lobelia chirped.

“Peregin Took. He snuck in once in the dead of night, had all my spoons stuffed in his pockets. Ha! Nothing more than a ruffian, and that scallywag Brandybuck who eggs him on is no better! You’d best watch out for them after I’m gone.”

“Never fear father.” Lobelia said happily. “Any suitor who tries to get at my purse will find himself eaten alive. Feet first.”

“That’s my girl.” Smeagol chuckled. He paused, as he put a vase down. “Lobelia?”

“Yes papa?”

“Gollum! Do you think I’m… odd? Unsociable?”

“Oh papa…” Lobelia hugged the old hobbit. “No, of course not. You’re a hero!”

“Gollum!” Smeagol coughed.

“It’s all just nonsense.” Lobelia said firmly. “That’s why I put a note on the front gate.”

Smeagol looked up at her. “You what?”

 

**NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON PARTY BUSINESS.**

That was the sign currently hanging on Smeagol’s front gate.

He looked at the sign. Then at his daughter. Then back at the sign.

“It’s so nobody bugs you.” Lobelia said innocently. A little too innocently for Smeagol’s trained senses. “I know how you get nervous when other hobbits are around.”

Smeagol decided to smile and go with it. “Well, thank you for the thought! Gollum! Although, I’m afraid it won’t keep out the Tooks. They’d want me to tell them in person that they’re not admitted.”

Smeagol and Lobelia shared a laugh.

“Mama will be up soon.” She said. “She’s just organizing the food for the party.”

“Good, good.” Smeagol rubbed his hands eagerly. If his wife was organizing the food, it was sure to be a treat.

“You think he’ll come?” She asked.

Smeagol tilted his head. “Who?”

“Why, Annatar of course!” Lobelia exclaimed.

“Ahhh. He wouldn’t miss a chance to light up his whiz-poppers! He’ll give us quite a show, you’ll see.”

Lobelia beamed, and shouldered her umbrella elegantly. “Alright then. I’m off.”

“Off to where?” Smeagol asked.

“East Farthing roads!” Lobelia exclaimed, leaping over the fence. “I’m going to surprise him.” 

Smeagol laughed at his daughter’s spirit. “Well go on then! You don’t want to be late.” He sighed, as he watched her leave. “He doesn’t approve of being late.”

He took out his pipe and sat down on the front bench. “Ah, Deagol.” He muttered. “How I wish you were here. I miss the days when you could tell Hobbiton we were respectable… when nothing unexpected ever happened to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, alright! This is the first chapter of my first story. It started when I saw the Desolation of Smaug, and was rather insulted by how remarkably unintelligent Smaug was portrayed as. I decided to make a story where Smaug was as smart as he was in the book, and I thought the best way to do that was to make Smaug the hero of the story. And once I pictured Bilbo as the conqueror of the Lonely Mountain, I couldn't resist doing the rest.
> 
> For those of you who are wont to wonder, yes, it does seem to almost parallel the hobbit. But I assure you, the characters differ, and thus the story will differ from the main plot in later chapters.


	2. An Unexpected Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Smeagol tries to be a good host and fails, Deagol tries to save his pantry and fails, and Annatar finds a way to amuse himself.

Smeagol sat on in front of his house in Bag-End, smoking some fine Old Toby.

Beside him sat his brother Deagol. Deagol was a respectable Hobbit – he inherited it from his Tookish mother. His face was handsome, and his curly locks framed it well, despite the lantern jaw. He had the beginnings of a stomach on him too – a fine stomach that commanded respect, not mockery.

Unfortunately, Smeagol took after his adventurous Baggins father. He was an oddity among the Shire, spared from disdain only by his reputation as a fine host, and by his brother’s example. His locks were black, and his voice rasped with a strange cough.

Yes, they were as opposite a pair as could be raised as brothers. Yet they got along surprisingly well, and it was no strange sight for the Shirefolk to see the pair of them talking to each other outside of their house, as they smoked Old Toby to sooth Smeagol’s throat.

By chance, on one quiet morning, Smeagol felt a whiff of the smoke waking him from a silent reverie. He looked up, and saw a strange man. He wore grey robes, and a tall pointed hat, and a walking staff that curled like the roots of a tree.

“Good morning.” The unsuspecting Hobbit greeted him, rousing his brother from a similar reverie.

“What do you mean, good morning?” The man asked. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or, perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning? Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”

And now Smeagol leaned forward with interest. For while many observed he inherited something queer from his father, many also observed that he had an aptitude for riddles, and clever words. Only Esmerelda Took and Saradoc Brandybuck had ever bested him in a game of riddles.

“All of them at once.” Smeagol answered. “And more; I also mean it is a very good morning for smoking out of doors, and it will be a good morning if you have time to joins us in this endeavor.” And Smeagol winced to himself as that, for Deagol always tried to discourage his brother’s habit of talking to any stranger they met.

The old man looked piercingly at Smeagol and Deagol, as if judging the weight of a hog at the fair.

“Thank you for the offer.” Said the old man. “But I cannot spare much time today. I am looking for someone to share an endeavor of my own. An adventure.”

“An adventure?” Smeagol asked.

Deagol scoffed. “I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures.” He said, standing up so it would be easier to look Gandalf in the eyes. “Adventures are nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner.”

And with that, the conversation seemed to be over. Smeagol took his brother’s hint and cut off his conversation. Deagol himself went through his usual routine of ignoring the old man. He’d given his word, and that’s all he would give to strangers without proper compensation. He shuffled over to the mailbox and began to sort through their mail, as if there wasn’t a strange man loitering around their property.

The man simply watched in a confused silence.

“Good morning.” Smeagol said, finally breaking the silence in hopes that the old man would understand.

“What a great many things you use good morning for.” The old man muttered, having clearly understood Smeagol's intent. “Now you mean that it was a good morning, and it shan’t be good again until I am gone.”

Deagol nodded, absently, as if he still wasn’t paying attention. It was a skill he practiced daily. Bag-End never had to worry about any busybodies with Deagol Baggins on the case.

“To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Bungo Baggin’s sons.” The old man muttered. “As if I were selling buttons at the door!”

“I Beg your pardon?” Smeagol asked.

“The pair of you have changed.” The old man said, shaking his head in sorrow. “And I don’t believe it is entirely for the better.”

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” Asked Deagol, whose legendary apathy disappeared in a moment.

“Well you know my name, though you don’t know I belong to it.”

Smeagol rubbed his head, and stuck a hand in his pocket as was his manner when confronted with a particularly vexing riddle. “A stranger in grey, and old man who knows our father, a recruiter of adventures and a riddler to boot. When put in that manner, the answer to this riddle is obvious. You can be only one man – Annatar!”

“Indeed.” Annatar smiled at having his riddle found out. “I am Annatar, and Annatar means me!”

“Annatar?” Deagol asked his brother. “… Not Annatar the wandering wizard, who made such excellent fireworks? I remember when we were young and we snuck into the back of his wagon on midsummer’s Eve and…” Deagol suddenly realized what he was, and who he was talking to, and his excited energy ceased. “No idea you were still in business.” He said, in a manner that was insulting, but could not readily be claimed as such.

He practiced those as well.

“Well, I am pleased to find you remember something about me.” Annatar muttered. “Even if it’s only my fireworks.”

“That’s not all we bloody remember.” Deagol muttered.

“Indeed.” Annatar laughed. “Well, that’s decided. It will be very good for you.” He smiled at Deagol. “And if not, then very amusing for me. I shall inform the others at once.”

“Inform the who?” Smeagol asked, shocked by the wizard’s words. “No! Gollum! No, no, wait!”

“What?” Deagol realized only a second later Annatar’s intentions. “No! Absolutely not. We do not want any adventures here, thank you. I suggest you try over the Hill or across the Water.” He scurried back to the door of Bag-End, gesturing frantically at Annatar with his pipe.

Annatar watched with laughter in his eyes.

“Adventure planners are not welcome in Bag-End, thank you.” Deagol said firmly, despite the pallor in his face. “I suggest you return to your old career as a party planner. Maybe go to Saradoc’s hole… he’s having a wedding soon, I’m sure come fireworks would be appreciated.” And with that he retreated.

“Good morning.” Smeagol said, finishing lamely, and following after his brother.

Once inside, Deagol bolted the door with a sigh. “Get down.” He whispered to Smeagol, who was looking out the window. “Stay out of sight, we should pretend we’re not at home.”

“But he saw us come inside just seconds ago.” Smeagol said. He pressed his nose against the glass, and saw Annatar standing outside, intent on the bottom of the door.

“All the more insult to him then.” Deagol said with a scowl. “If I ever see that wizard again, it shall be too soon.”

Suddenly, Annatar’s face appeared at the window. “Gollum!” Smeagol cried out, and he fell backwards onto the floor.

“Smeagol?” Deagol looked cautiously out the window, only to see the grey wizard’s retreating form.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night at Bag-End, Smeagol was preparing a magnificent dinner of fish, while Deagol also prepared soup. Unaware of anything amiss, and perfectly willing to forget the wizard that had visited them that morning, they sat down to eat.

Just as Deagol was squeezing lemon juice out over his meal, and Smeagol was beginning to shovel the first forkful down his throat, the bell by the door rang. They looked up at each other. Whether by destiny or chance, Smeagol was on the side of the table closest to the door.

“Don’t answer it.” Deagol said, with deathly seriousness.

“It’ll be company!” Smeagol said gleefully, and he was always one to entertain company.

“It’ll be the wizard from this morning, you mark me brother.” Deagol said.

The doorbell rang again.

“Smeagol… I’m warning you…” Smeagol rushed out of his seat. Deagol moved to intercept him, but he was not as light on his feet, and even if he was he chose to go around the table instead of undignified means such as ducking under, or over the dinner table. His mother raised him to be a gentle-hobbit after all.

Smeagol opened the door. It was not a Hobbit company, nor was it the wizard from this morning. It was a dwarf.

The dwarf was taller than any Smeagol had seen before. He had not a hair on his head above his generous sideburns, and his beard was small, and ragged, as if it had been shorn off with a hedge trimmer. His skin was white, as though it had never seen the sun, although it had certainly seen a tattoo parlor. His well-muscled arms were exposed as the tunic he wore under his chain mail shirt was torn off at the shoulders. This also exposed his most glaring feature – his left arm had been cut off between the wrist and the elbow. Fitted onto the arm in a silver gilded setting was a dwarvish axe, the shape of an overlarge butcher’s cleaver, or perhaps a small halberd, with runes on the side.

He uncrossed his arms, and bowed as Smeagol opened the door. “Azog, at your service.” He said politely.

“Gollum.” Smeagol coughed, slightly stunned. “Smeagol Baggins at… yours.”

Azog walked in, without waiting for an invitation. So frightened was he of this ax-handed dwarf, that he let out no protest. Out of the corner of his eye, Smeagol saw the color of Deagol’s face, and that his brother was coming to a similar conclusion.

“Which way, laddie?” Azog asked, looking down the corridor from whence Deagol had come. “Is it down here?”

“I-is what down where?” Smeagol asked, suddenly terrified of the answer to this particular riddle.

“Supper.” Azog answered. “He said there’s be food. And lots of it.”

Smeagol’s eyes connected with his brothers. Neither had to ask exactly _who_ said there would be food.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Azog sat down at Deagol’s spot at the table, merrily eating the fish. Smeagol watched in a state of awe and horror as the dwarf disregarded the cutlery in favor of his hand (and his ax, when he needed to cut the fish). Understandably, Deagol had gathered up the silverware from the living quarters, and sequestered himself in his room, ready to beat anybody who entered with a candlestick.

Azog bit into the head of the fish. “Mmmm. … Very good, this. Any more?”

“What?” Smeagol asked. A dragon could have snuck up on him in that moment and he wouldn’t have noticed. “Uh, oh, yes, yes, gollum. Help… yourself.”

Smeagol palmed a couple of rolls from a plate behind him, for him and his brother, and set the plate on the table.

This is insane. Thought Smeagol. And yet, here he was, serving a one-handed dwarf a supper. Perhaps he would try to entertain him, as a good host would. “So…” Smeagol began. “Is an axe really practical for a replacement hand? It’s be a bit difficult to hold a napkin in, wouldn’t it?”

The instant the words left his mouth, Smeagol knew he was dead. Azog turned his head slowly towards the hobbit, an unreadable expression on his face. Somewhere between a glare, a squint, or a shock. His axe hand twitched.

The bell rang from the front hall.

“Gollum! That’ll be the door. Gollum!” Smeagol managed to squeak out, before running for it as fast as his legs could carry him.

Relieved to find Azog not pursuing him, Smeagol opened the door to find another dwarf. This one was shorter – although, could there be a dwarf taller than Azog? He was also older, and while his hairline was receding what hair he did have was white as a skeleton and reached down to his waist. He wore a bright green robe, almost in the style of Annatar. But beneath the robe, Smeagol caught the glint of a breastplate. And the way he moved reminded Smeagol of Azog – although this dwarf had an intelligent glint in his eye.

“Bolg.” Said the dwarf, with a pleasantly inclined bow. “At your service.”

“Good evening.” Said Smeagol.

“Yes, yes it is.” Bolg said strolling inside without an invite. “Although I don’t fancy the weather for those who arrive late. I am on time I take it?”

“On time for what?” Smeagol asked, and then kicked himself for he needn’t have asked.

Bolg rounded the corners, and met eyes with Azog. Who, Smeagol was horrified to see, had impaled three of his embroidered napkins in his absence. “Evening my brother.” Bolg said, walking forward with a smile on his face. As Smeagol watched, a transformation seemed to come over Azog, and he seemed less like a dwarven mercenary straight from the Black Lands, and more like a puppy who had found a long lost friend.

“By my bald head.” The dwarf said with a smirk. “It has been too long. You’re shorter and wider than last we met.”

“Wider, but not shorter.” Bolg shook his head. “And with enough hair for the both of us.”

They laughed, and put each other in a strange handshake – Bolg clasped both of Azog’s elbows, while Azog clasped one of his brother’s elbows and tried to keep his axe out of the way. With an amicable chuckle, they smashed their heads together.

Smeagol decided that this was a tale too strange even to tell Deagol’s grandchildren (the idea that Smeagol would someday have grandchildren was too impossible to contemplate).

Seeing that his guests were occupied, Smeagol made his way to his brother’s bedroom. As he suspected, Deagol was poking his head out, and brandishing a candlestick. “That ornament will do you no good brother, except to see the Light in the afterlife should you do something foolish.” Smeagol said, with a worry.

“I heard the doorbell.” Deagol said. “Has Annatar arrived? Has he said when the dwarf will leave?”

“No.” Smeagol said sadly. “Brother, another dwarf has appeared at the door. And I feel it’s not unreasonable to expect there will be more than two dwarves in this house before the night is up.”

Deagol groaned, and slammed his head into the door with frustration. “Is there any good news?”

“The latest dwarf does not have an axe for a hand?” Smeagol offered. “Although, he still seems capable of dealing the death of us with his bare hands. Still, no need to worry about blood on our carpets at least.”

“It would be a botheration to replace the carpeting.” Deagol agreed.

And then a noise came from the pantry.

“By the hills, they’re at the larder!” Deagol slammed the door shut, and after a moment of fumbling with the locks, he emerged from his room.

Nobody – not dwarves, not bandits, not wizards, not kings, not even dragons – had a go at the Baggins Brother’s pantry without their say so.

Deagol stomped down the hall (although, being a hobbit, his feet had the disadvantage of not being very loud when stomped). He arrived just in the nick of time to hear Bolg say something about moldy cheese, and toss some of their roquefort away.

“Not the roquefort.” Smeagol whined.

Deagol rolled up his sleeves and brandished his candlestick. He stood in the doorway and said to the two dwarves; “Excuse me; sorry, I hate to interrupt. But the thing is, I’m not entirely sure you’re in the right house.”

“Ah, thank you for the light my fine sir.” Bolg apparently hadn't heard him, as he plucked the candlestick from Deagol’s hands like he was taking mushrooms from a baby, and lit it, shining their light on the pantry.

“Yes, fine hosts these Bagginses.” Azog said, tipping a tankard of ale in their direction, which Smeagol decidedly did not offer him. “The younger one even asked about me axe. Nobody’s ever done that before.”

“Can’t imagine why not.” Bolg muttered under his breath, examining the cheese wheels.

Gone was Deagol’s bravado. His mouth opened and closed as if he was talking, and his words being stolen from his mouth by a wizard’s hand. Then the doorbell rang again.

Deagol let out a sound like a small moan, and walked to the door as if in a trance. Beyond the door were three dwarves. Easily younger than any of the dwarves present, these ones barely had beards; merely stubble.

“Tom.” Said the widest of the bunch. He had solid sideburns, framing a stoic face. He wore blue chainmail armor, and bandoliers of knives.

“Bert.” Said the dwarf who wore no armor at all. Instead, he looked like he’d come from a kitchen, with an apron over his humble clothes – the only hint of his menace being the bow and quarrel on his back, amongs the various pots and pans dangling from his pack.

“William.” Said the third troll in a nasally voice. He was thinner than a dwarf had right to be, and his scraggly red hair contrasted with the darker hair of his brothers – for they were brothers. You could see the similarities between the three as clear as day.

“At your service.” Said the three, bowing together.

“You must be Mr. Baggins!” William exclaimed.

“Nope, sorry, you’ve come to the wrong house.” Said Deagol, who had finally come to his senses.

He made to slam the door, but it hit Tom square on the head. The dwarf didn’t flinch.

“Has it been cancelled?” He asked, more concerned with the answer, than the door he was currently stopping.

“No one told us!” William protested.

“Typical.” Bert sniffed. “Absolutely typical. Invite us all the way into nowhere, and he goes and cancels on us.”

“No, nothing’s been cancelled!” Deagol said, in disbelief. And Smeagol, who knew riddling talk, instantly knew that Deagol had made a mistake.

“Well, that’s a relief.” Tom said, pushing his way through the door nonchalantly, as his brothers followed.

William set his bow and broadsword into Smeagol’s arms. “Careful.” He said. “Just had these sharpened I have.” Tom silently set his bandoliers in Smeagol’s arms too, and Bert began unstrapping his pack.

“It’s a nice place.” Tom said, stroking the support beams. “Did you design it yourself?”

William snorted, and horcked a loogie into a nearby vase.

“No, no don’t do that.” Deagol picked up the vase. “It’s been in the family for years –”

“Bert!” Azog exclaimed, strutting up and embracing the younger dwarf. “Come on, we’ll be needing your expertise in the kitchen.”

“Mr. Azog!” Tom cheered, clapping the dwarf on the back like an old fried.

“How many more are there?” Deagol whispered with terror.

“I’ve no idea.” Said Smeagol, as he put the weaponry down upon the jewelry box. “Best get yourself back to your room brother, while I try to mitigate the grocery expenses of this adventure Annatar has set us on.”

“No.” Deagol said in disbelief. “Absolutely not. We’re not on any adventures, not yet.”

“Exactly.” Said Smeagol. “Not yet. Just as we had two dwarves, not five, before you came in. Let me be host brother, and if you hear anything happen to me, escape through the window.”

Deagol nodded, and went back down into his hobbit hole. Neither remembered that the time had long past when they had snuck out through the window under their mother’s watching gaze, and of the pair of them Deagol was the least likely to fit through at present.

Smeagol took a deep breath to calm himself. He listened to the laughter of the dwarves, to Bolg asking Azog about filling up his tankard, to Bert educating his brothers of the wonders of sage. He heard the furniture shift as they made way for what would doubtless be more uninvited guests.

The doorbell rang again, and Smeagol spun around.

“Oh no!” He said. “Oh no. Go away and bother somebody else!” He gripped the door handle. “There’s far too many dwarves in our hole as it is!”

And then he opened the door, and a quintet of dwarves fell to the ground in front of him. Followed by the most rounded dwarf Smeagol had ever seen landing atop them.

“You have got to be joking!” The dwarf at the bottom moaned.

“Gentledwarves!” The large dwarf on top sat up. He was dressed in finer clothing than the others (save perhaps Bolg) but had a massive fold of fat dangling from his neck, and instead of a beard this dwarf wore a braded mustache. “I have arrived! This party has officially started!”

But Smeagol looked past him. To the grey robes that stood out front. The owner of the robes bent down, and peered into the hobbit hole, unrepentantly smiling at Smeagol.

“Annatar.” Smeagol muttered, tiredly.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The entire group of dwarves was now raiding the panty, save for Bert who was preparing the stolen goods in the kitchen.

“Those are my mother’s plates!” Smeagol cried out, hoping somebody hear them. “Not the honey, not the – no, I was saving that fish for Sunday elevensies – Put that back – put that back – how did you even – Gollum! - no, seriously, put that back – excuse me!” He jumped out of the way as the dwarf with the toad’s chin walked past, carrying three blocks of cheese. “Rather hungry aren’t we?”

He had meant to be sarcastic. But the dwarf just smiled at him and said “No, just feeling a bit peckish at the moment. If you wouldn’t mind bringing in more cheese for the others…”

Smeagol was aware that he wasn’t being a very good host. He was just so flustered, that it seemed as though giving up his perfect reputation was worth it for some peace of mind.

Annatar strode calmly into their midst. One of the dwarves held up a tray and some tea. “Excuse me, Mr. Wizard sir, might I tempt you with a nice cup of chamomile tea?”

“Oh, no thank you Kiran, just a small glass of wine.” As the dwarf – Kiran – left off, Annatar began to count the assembled dwarves. “Let’s see, Tom, William, Bert’s in the kitchen.” A pair of dwarves wearing the skins of foxes or wolves strode by carrying an antique armchair. “Yazneg, Nazurg…” Azog positioned himself against the wall, as Bolg carried some wine into the dining room. “Azog, Bolg…” The great necked dwarf passed by, carrying seven long baguettes over his shoulder, and a keg under his other arm. “Hroa…” There followed in quick succession, a dwarf wearing nothing but leather and with a crooked nose, a dwarf wearing quite the audacious hat, and the thin dwarf who wore glasses, coming back into the room with Annatar’s wine. “Grinnah, Fimbel, and Kiran.” He finished off, accepting the small glass from Kiran. “We’re one short.”

“Our other vertically gifted friend is not yet here.” Nazurg muttered, brushing past Annatar.

“He is late is all.” Azog said, from his post against the wall. “He travelled North to a meeting of our kin. He will come, if he knows what’s good for him.” His axe glinted with the reflection of his wicked smile.

Annatar sighed, and prepared to take his wine. It was his mistake that he also took a step while drinking it. The crown of his head clashed against the chandelier, which hung high enough if you were a hobbit but not if you were a wizard. Annatar steadied the chandelier, and looked down to see he had spilled his wine over his shirt. “Oh.”

“Here master Annatar.” Hroa strode forward. “One can’t appear at such an august assemblage with wine on their robes.”

Smeagol was just about to add his two farthings on what he thought of this ‘august assemblage’, when Hroa pressed his shillelagh against Annatar’s robes. The wine stain disappeared – a miracle, thought Smeagol, who had his own misfortune regarding spilt wine and ruined parties.

Hroa bowed deeply. “Magic is a gift Aule grants only to the greatest of dwarves.” He confided, in such a manner that the highest of kings might give a small piece of advice to his lowliest subject. “And I am THE Great Dwarf.”

“Mmm.” Annatar muttered. Then he held out his glass. “Kiran, would you mind filling me up again? Be sure you don’t stint.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dwarves in the Baggins Dining room were neither august, nor even house trained. Bert danced on the table, as he handed out food. Ginnah didn’t use any utensils, at all. After Azog accidentally cut him, Hroa had him exiled to the kitchen sink, whilst Kiran tossed dumplings into his mouth. Every time he caught a dumpling, the denizens of the table cheered.

Deagol came up behind Smeagol. Smeagol watched as his older brother stood, bereft, in front of the pantry. If there was food left for a mouse to have tea, they would be lucky. He turned, his expression the emptiest one Smeagol had ever seen, and stood beside his brother as they watched the carnage that was developing in their dining room.

“On the count of three!” Yazneg cried. With a cheer, the Dwarves raised their mugs to their lips and drank half of the Baggins’ supply of beer in one go.

Fimbel let out an almighty belch.

Hroa’s follow up shook the kitchen.

Then William took them all to school, letting loose a burst of gas that could have been heard in Brandybuck Hall.

Deagol placed his head on Smeagol’s shoulder and sobbed quietly.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Excuse me, that is a doily, not a dishcloth!”

Deagol snatched the clothe out of Fimbel’s hands. “But it’s full of holes.” The be-hatted dwarf responded.

“It’s supposed to look like that, it’s crochet.” Smeagol explained.

“Oh, and a wonderful game it is too, if you got the balls for it.” Fimbel answered with a smile.

“Yes, and I would play a few rounds, but I fear Hroa has eaten everything in the house round enough to be mistaken for a bon-bon!” Smeagol said, his attempt usual wordplay marred by his raised voice. He was getting extraordinarily frustrated.

“My dear hobbits, what on earth is the matter?” Annatar asked, walking past with a gentle light in his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Deagol huffed indignantly. “It’s a wonder you have to ask! We are surrounded by dwarves – some are armed, one literally and figuratively, and one of them has magic! But maybe this doesn’t matter to you – I’m sure a wizard such as yourself is more concerned with reading the future in the dregs of his wine bottles! Don’t let us keep you! The Green Dragon is right down the road, and I daresay they’re better stocked then we are at the moment.”

“My dear fellow, there is nowhere I would rather be.” Said Annatar with a laugh.

Deagol’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying yourself aren’t you? A bit of amusement at my expense for turning down your blasted adventure!”

“Now, I don’t recall you turning down my invitation.” Gandalf said.

“He’s right.” Smeagol sighed behind his brother. “You only said we didn’t want adventures here, and there’s not likely an adventure that’ll take place at old Bag End. You then said that adventure planners were not welcome, and invited him to try his hand at wedding planning – which is not to say that Annatar even planned this particular adventure, or that he means to miss out on Saradoc’s big day. We never officially declined.”

Annatar turned his gaze to Deagol’s uncomfortable looking younger brother. “You’re sharper than most of the knives in this hobbit hole, Master Smeagol.” Annatar complimented him. “And you have a ready memory. That will serve you well.”

Smeagol filled his gaze with sympathy for his brother. “You have been out-foxed by your words Deagol, and I by my good mornings.” He then turned his attention to Annatar. “And he never required our participation in any event. As he said, even if we didn’t accept he would still be amused.”

“You are amusing yourself!” Deagol accused the wizard.

“And that isn’t a crime.” Annatar said. “Certainly not in the Shire, where amusing one’s self seems to be a way of life. And my dwarvish friends are quite the merry gathering. Once you get used to them.”

Yazneg and Nazurg fought over a string of sausages behind him.

“Your friends are an acquired flavor, at best.” Deagol said. “The state of my kitchen! They’ve pillaged the pantry! My furniture moved – mud trod into the carpet! I shan’t even mention the plumbing, I fear our house guests have pushed it beyond the point of recovery. Annatar, what are these dwarves doing in our house?”

“Excuse me?” The Baggins brothers turned as Grinnah stepped up to them with a foul, grease covered plate. “I’m sorry to interrupt.” The dwarf said. “But what should I do with my plate?”

“Here Grinnah, give it to me.” William said, coming up behind them. He took the plate from Grinnah’s hand, and tossed it over the two Hobbit’s heads. Tom caught it, and threw it into the kitchens, where Bert caught them without even looking.

“Excuse me, that’s our mother’s West Farthing crockery!” Deagol protested. “It’s over a hundred years old! Gollum!” The dwarves began to rhythmically beat on the table with their utensil’s in hand (except, thankfully, for Azog). They began to clink their knives together, pounding out a tune.

“Can you not do that?” Deagol asked. “You’ll blunt them!”

“Ooh, d’hear that, lads?” Fimbel asked. “He says we’ll blunt the knives.”

And at that, the company of dwarves started to sing.

_“Blunt the knives, bend the forks_

_Smash the bottles and burn the corks_

_Chip the glasses and crack the plaaaaates_

_That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”_

Crockery flew threw the air with reckless abandon. The Baggins brothers were hallway between stunned and senseless, as they watched the nimble dexterity of the dwarves. Even Azog managed to dance around with the plates, bouncing them off his axe-hand without harm.

_“Cut the cloth and tread on the fat_

_Leave the bones on the bedroom mat_

_Pour the milk on the pantry flooooor_

_Splash the wine on every door!”_

Hroa was balancing the several plates on his shillelagh, and was almost definitely using a little magic to do so. Bolg was sitting down comfortably, but even a dwarf of his age flipped cups and saucers behind him as if it were nothing. Annatar ducked to avoid a saucepan that flew through the air.

_“Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl_

_Pound them up with a thumping pole_

_When you’ve finished, if any are whole_

_Send them down the hall to roooooooooooll_

_That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”_

Deagol and Smeagol made their way into the throng to end the song – only to find the song already ended, and the dwarves laughing as Bert finished washing the last of the plates and putting them in a neat, organized pile. Deagol huffed in anger, and Smeagol rolled his eyes.

And the door-bell rang.

The dwarves immediately stopped what they were doing, eye wide with happiness, wonder, and respect.

“He is here.” Annatar said, looking slightly worried.

Smeagol raised an eyebrow, and went to get the door.

He opened it, expecting to find another dwarf. Instead, on the doorstop of Bag-End, stood a man. If you could call him a man. He stood as tall as Annatar. He wore a red leather waistcoat, decorated with golden ornaments, with tails reaching down to the ground. He had dignified black clothes on underneath, finer than anything either Deagol or Smeagol owned. His skin was pale, as though he’d never been outside before in his life, and his hair was as black as embers of coal, which could catch fire at any moment. But the most distinguishing feature of the man was his eyes; they were a fiery fold, ever changing and shifting as if the gold in his eyes were molten, and the red in his eyes a live flame. His eyes narrowed into serpentine slits.

“Mr. Baggins.” Annatar said, coming up behind them. “And, Mr. Baggins. Allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Smaug the Magnificent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so; hopefully you all know who Azog and Bolg are. Tom, Bert, and William are the trolls. Yazneg and Narzug are Azog's warg riding right hands. Hroa is the Great Goblin - I got the name from hints that the Great Goblin was a maiar in orcish form, called a Hroa. Ginnah is the Great Goblin's mouse-nosed lacky, Fimbel is Bolg's right hand orc (the one that Legolas beheaded in an incredible fashion) and Kiran is the name I call that little orc scribe that sends a message to Azog from the Great Goblin.


End file.
